


Come Together

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-03-11 10:39:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3324488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It didn't start out this way, but the media fishbowl the boys are in is utterly bewildering and they find themselves more codependent with each tour stop. They start to realize the only true intimacy and trust they have is with each other." I took this prompt and I wrote a sexfest set somewhere between 'oh dear we're codependent' and the inevitable 'oh dear we're all in love' that will come later. Um.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Together

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magdalyna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magdalyna/gifts).



"All right, babe," Harry says. His voice is soft and hoarse, the way it used to get at the end of a long day of voice training; the way it still gets when he's ripped out half their back catalogue from the bottom of his lungs onstage. His hand on his cock is big and steady, long, artists' fingers. His fist is working easily through a layer of slick, the pink wet head of his dick appearing and then disappearing into his foreskin with the repetitive inevitability of a metronome, and Zayn wants to cry. His jaw aches. Saliva puddles under his tongue, wanting to lap at that place where precome is pearling up out of Harry, wanting to wiggle his tongue under the velvety skin and suck and suck. 

He didn't always feel like this, he's pretty sure. Used to be it was girls that did it for him, girls he fantasised about, but somewhere along the way it got hard to know whether a girl wanted you or wanted the boy from the TV, and nothing killed the mood like that kind of uncertainty. With the boys, it was different. They loved each other; whatever kind of love it turned out to be, at least that part was unequivocal. 

"Harry," Zayn whines, protesting, and arches his back. The necktie around his wrists is his own, plain dark silk, and it doesn't hurt or rasp or cut into his skin, but it doesn't give, either. Zayn doesn't know how much he really wants it to. The hotel-room carpet is starting to feel rough against the bare skin of his arse. Too much wriggling around, Harry would say. 

Zayn doesn't particularly care what Harry would say at this moment in time. He spreads his knees as far as he can, pushing against the pressure of Niall's scarf around his ankles, and pushes his hips up.

"Hey, hey." Liam is gentler, the tone of his voice warm and half-amused. He touches his bare foot to Zayn's shoulder, lightly, and suddenly Zayn can see him when he tips his head back, a long smooth shot up the jean-clad legs and the bare, muscled arms and the stiff prick in his big left hand. 

Zayn murmurs restively, like an animal, and Liam smiles at him. His hand is moving quickly, and it makes Zayn's gut dip hotly, thinking about it; knowing how good that hand is, knuckles catching on the shaft of his dick and the clever thumb sweeping over the head of it. Liam's so good, in every sense of the word. Beside him, Louis is half-pissed and grinning, tucking his face into the warm curve of Liam's throat, and Zayn swallows, imagining the smell of it, warm boy-skin and the pound of Liam's pulse under the skin.

"Come on, Zayn," Liam chides him softly. Besides him, Harry laughs a little; their forearms rub together as they wank themselves off, Harry's right against Liam's left. Suddenly, fiercely, Zayn wishes they would kiss, Jesus. They don't do that. They're not -- this isn't -- gay, or anything. It's just them, just simple, just something they need to survive. Zayn doesn't know why he wants it. Does weird things to a bloke, being this turned on. "Hang on just a little bit longer," Liam says; "all right?" 

"Come on, babe," Harry echoes, gentle. He steps closer, and Zayn can see the flush on his cheeks, now, spreading down under the opened collar of his shirt. The light from the nightstand glances off the sticky crown of his dick, pulsing in his hand. On Liam's other side, Louis is biting his lip, soundless, head tipped back and slim fingers almost a blur on his prick. Harry throws him a look; turns to Zayn's other side. "Niall?" 

Niall's hand curls around Zayn's ankle without warning, long, narrow fingers. It's only Zayn's fuckin' ankle, for Christ's sake. There's no call to arch up at the small of the back the way he does, hips bucking hopelessly against air, but Zayn's been trussed up like this a while now, sound of his own breath and the movements of the others' hands a buzz in his ears, and every inch of him is tingling. Every square inch of skin feels like it's wired straight to his neglected dick, and fuck, Niall's steadying hand on his ankle feels like it might as well have been on his cock. 

"Nialler, fuck," he babbles, pressing the top of his foot back against Niall's hand, and Niall laughs nervously. He's on his knees, now, face flushed with embarrassment the way it always gets when they do this, any of this, but his eyes are hot and bright and dark and Zayn wants. 

"Go on, Nialler," comes Harry's voice, a little teasing and a little amused and wholly, hotly fond. "Give 'im what he wants, why don't you?" 

"Oh," Niall mutters under his breath, the word punched out of him. His hand slips on his prick, jerking, the muscles in his wiry forearm lengthening and contracting visibly under the skin. He's close, Zayn can tell; Zayn can smell him, all of them, the raw sweaty musk of their dicks and their bodies in the overheated room. 

"Niall," Zayn prompts again, panting. "Please, man, I -- I need it." 

Niall's breath catches on a groan in his throat, the motions of his arm gone erratic. It'll only be seconds now, and the muscles of Zayn's stomach and thighs tense in anticipation, but Harry is ready at his elbow with a stern look under his eyelashes, his eyebrows quirked in concentration. 

"Need what, babe?" he pushes. Abruptly, he folds to his knees, miles of legs tucked under himself, and then his pumping hand is working right by the dip of Zayn's navel, the sound of it wet and obscene as it moves. "What do you need? Tell Niall what you need." 

Niall groans again, head tipping back, and Zayn feels, suddenly, powerful; twisted up like this, naked and bound on the floor of some anonymous hotel room, it makes no sense, but it's there all the same. He could say anything, now, and it would be good, it would be what they all wanted to hear. On his other side, Liam goes to his knees too, hand fisted in the sleeve of Louis's jacket and dragging him down with, and Zayn bites his lip, pushes his hips up, for a second very conscious of the graceful arch of his body. 

"Come on me," he says, voice pitched low, and Liam's breath catches. 

"Shit," Niall says, sounding almost surprised at the first spurt of come over his fist, as if he'd inadvertently knocked a pen off his desk or lost a plectrum in his guitar. It's oddly, incongruously endearing. Zayn lets the little wave of fondness wash over him and spreads his thighs wider for it. 

"Yeah," he murmurs, soft and hoarse, "God, that's it, yeah. Come on me, Nialler. Want you to come all fucking over me." 

"Christ, Malik." Harry's free hand, then, sudden and sure on Zayn's throat, thumb just touching the bump of his larynx, pressing in. "What a dirty fucking mouth you've got, shall we tell the fan magazines about it?" 

By Zayn's feet, Niall is biting his lip, spasming; another long pulse of come streaks across Zayn's thighs, hot as wax, and Zayn groans, his own dick twitching against his belly. 

"Yes," Harry goes on, "I think somebody should tell them all about what a pretty little slut you are, how much you like us to get you all dirty." He smiles, and then his eyes skip away from Zayn's face, beyond him. "Lou, grab his hair." 

"Ah!" Zayn's head jerks back abruptly, involuntarily; Louis's hand is strong and sure in his hair, forcing his chin up, and the heat of it sings through him everywhere, sparking in his fingers and toes, in all his empty places. 

"Oh, yes," Harry says, approving, "that's more like it, isn't it, Liam? Doesn't he look pretty like that?" 

"Beautiful," Liam says, warm. His thumb brushes the corner of Zayn's mouth, then sweeps along the curve of his lower lip, pressing gently. "Better if he opened his mouth up, though, don't you think?" Another sweep, and Zayn's shivering, now, dick hard against his stomach in a sticky puddle of its own slick. "Come on, darlin', open up." 

Zayn opens his mouth. It's almost a relief, the muscles in his jaw, in his throat, somehow yearning to be stretched. Dimly, he registers Niall crawling up the carpet alongside him, Niall's hand on his shoulder as if to pin him down, but it seems far away. 

"Oh, yeah," Harry says, his voice a dark groan. He shuffles closer, and Zayn whimpers involuntarily, Harry close enough now that Zayn can see the pulse of blood along the underside of his dick; can feel the whisper of air against his cheek as Harry tosses himself off. The smell of him is intoxicating, earthy and clean. 

"Please, Hazza." He closes his eyes, tips his head back. Pushes his toes into the carpet. "Liam --"

"Shhh," Liam hushes, but his voice is wound tight; Louis's hand in Zayn's hair clenches reflexively as the two of them work themselves closer in breathless tandem. The head of Liam's dick touches Zayn's cheekbone for a second, the merest little kiss of wetness, but Zayn feels it like an electric shock, bucking up at the hips. 

"Fuck," he gets out, almost a sob. "Please, please." He tosses his head on the carpet, feels Niall's hand squeeze his shoulder. 

"You're all right," Niall tells him, voice even lower than usual. "Now shut up and keep your mouth open, why don't you? Thought you liked to taste it, you reprobate." 

"Oh, bloody hell," Harry spits, hand speeding up for a jagged, frantic second. And then he comes. And comes, and comes; Zayn pants and jerks against Liam's restraining hand as if he could lift his chin further, but it's no use, he can't catch all of it. Wet gobs of it pool on his tongue, his lips; his cheeks are hot with it. Zayn moans in his throat, eyes half-lidded, and above him, Harry pants and shivers, eyes clenched shut, hand slowly stilling. 

"Fuck, no," Zayn insists, nonsensical and, as ever, demanding. His fingers twist into the palms of his hands, nails digging in. "Don't stop, don't stop. Please, please." He jerks again against the hand in his hair, as if he could turn his head despite it, shoulders twisting in protest. "Liam, please! Lou --" 

"Jesus," Liam pants, and then his hand is gone from Zayn's hair, seizing him by the chin instead, holding his head up. His left hand is working himself frantically, the head of his prick poised over Zayn's mouth, close enough that Zayn can see the little slit opening up around the first gob of come. "Like that, pet?" he gets out, strained, and Zayn could say _yes yes yes_ ; but that would ruin the shot, the perfect inevitability of it, so close, so close. So he only opens his mouth wider, closes his eyes. The sound that emerges from his throat is almost a sob. 

"God, Zayn," Harry says, voice wrecked and close and hot, "fuckin' love that, don't you? The fuck do they teach you up home?" 

Zayn half-laughs around a swallow, can't help it; the steady thrum of want has become almost a euphoria, now, a full-body high. When Liam pulls away, last little jet of come streaking Zayn's chin, Zayn is trembling, floating above the carpet, all of them on him and in him and his heart pounding in his prick and under their hands. Dimly, he hears Louis cursing; feels his smaller hand replace Liam's when Liam goes slack with satisfaction, and when Zayn can open his eyes again, it's to the sight of Louis with his long throat bared, head tipped back, cock leaking slick against Zayn's cheek. Helplessly, Zayn stretches for it, and Louis swears a blue streak as he comes, one hand sliding into Zayn's hair, fierceness that becomes sweet when he's spent at last. 

It's Harry's mouth Zayn gets, in the end. He'd know that mouth anywhere, the way Harry always touches the head with his tongue before he starts, just lightly, like a kid testing sherbet. Zayn thrashes, hips jerking, and Niall laughs and pushes him down at the waist and says, "If you poke him in the eye, mate, he'll stop." 

"Fuck, no," Zayn pants, tossing his head on the carpet, "don't stop, don't stop, oh. Harry!" 

Harry hums wetly around a mouthful of dick and flashes him a look, raises one eyebrow. Harry bites his lip and moans. The muscles are jumping in his thighs, in his stomach, but he needs -- 

"Liam," he gets out; catches Liam's eye and strains towards him, mouth open and Liam smiles at him, pushes two fingers easily into his mouth, understanding. 

"Yeah, there you go." Liam's two fingers slip over his tongue, then out, then back, wet little pushes that echo the slide of Zayn's dick into Harry's mouth. It shouldn't be hot, shouldn't be what he needs, but it is, it is and Harry's too fucking good at this for a lad from the nice end of Manchester and 

_oh, shit_

Zayn tries to say, but it gets lost around Liam's fingers and becomes a yell that goes on and on until Harry pulls off, panting, and crawls up Zayn's body to lick a stripe along his jaw, just to be annoying. 

At least, Zayn thinks that's why. 

"Anyone got any reefer?" Louis says. Liam pulls his fingers gently out of Zayn's mouth and wipes them on his shoulder. 

" _Reefer_? What is this, 1969?" 

Louis rolls his eyes. "C'mon." 

Liam relents, mouth quirking. "In my jacket," he says. 

Zayn blinks blearily. "Is someone going to untie me before we have the post-coital fags, or what?" 

"Nah." Harry runs a hand idly through the drying smear of Niall's come on Zayn's thigh and grins at him. "We like you better this way, don't we?" 

"Less bother," Niall agrees, coming back with the weed. 

"Fine," Zayn says, "let Niall roll one of his crap loose joints, see if I care." 

Liam rolls his eyes and smiles, brushing a hand gently through Zayn's hair. "We're having you on. Go on, then, let's roll you over." 

When Zayn is face down on the carpet, Harry says thoughtfully, "Maybe next time we should do you the other way up, Malik." He fumbles with the tie, unfurls it with a flourish. Zayn laughs. 

"Wait and see how I feel after I've had a toke," he says, rolling over. Harry smiles at him. Beside him, Liam and Niall are faffing ineffectually with a too-small cigarette paper. Zayn sort of wants to cuddle all of them close and never let go, but that would be, you know. Weird. This understanding between them, it's fragile. They don't put words to it, and Zayn is half-afraid of shattering it if anyone were to try. 

"Oh, come off it," he says, and takes the paper out of Liam's hand. "Let me do it." 

It's early, still, by American standards, but Zayn has a feeling they won't be going anywhere else tonight. 


End file.
